Any time the seasons change, something inside me stirs and stretches. I'm such a victim of the calendar. I really don't think I would have noticed the spring equinox if it hadn't been trumpeted on the media, but there you have it. I heard, and that was all it took.
Now I'm in a busy-busy-busy mode. Too ratcheted up to read. Too ratcheted up to sit comfortably at the computer lazing the time away. And actually too ratcheted up to get any meaningful work done in the house. I'm here. I'm there. I'm back to here. Oops--over there.
But what's cool is that the thing inside me that's restless is the writer. She's been slumbering for a long time, sorrowing over losses, and trying to heal some pretty sharp wounds. Now she's waking up, and she's ready. Let's write, she insists. Let's write all those stories you've been dreaming.
There are other hands clutching at me, though. Kitty hands. Children hands. Job hands. House hands. And, ick-ick-ick, tax hands.
But this lady has been waiting a long time. I think she deserves a front seat in my day, don't you?